


Forgiveness

by everytimeyougo



Category: The Good Fight (TV)
Genre: Chaos, F/M, fluffy af, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-03 12:38:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11532396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everytimeyougo/pseuds/everytimeyougo
Summary: Hand in hand, they reach the front door.





	1. Chapter 1

Hand in hand, they reach the front door. He pauses briefly, seems about to speak, then shakes his head, releasing her hand and reaching for the screen door. Unlocked, of course. She smiles. This is her Kurt, still.

He steps back and she precedes him through the door, stopping in the hall, realising, suddenly, how long it's been since she's stood in this spot.  She can see the living room from here, all rustic wood and leather and big stone fireplace. A picture of her still adorns the mantle, her hair windswept and the mountains majestic behind her.

Everything is so different, and yet, nothing seems to have changed.

His hands slide up her arms to her shoulders, tugging gently at her coat until she steps forward and it falls away. Continuing on, she comes to a stop in the middle of the room and closes her eyes, breathing in the smell of leather and books and yesterday’s fire. It’s both calming and exhilarating, being here again, and any remaining doubt over whether she should stay evaporates.

She senses rather than sees when he appears behind her a few moments later, standing close, so close, but not quite touching. “You said something about a fire?” Her voice is hoarse, and it’s silly, really. This is her husband, and it isn’t even the first time they’ve been alone together since their separation. There’s no reason it should feel so momentous.

“Right,” he says, and she can feel the breath from his words on her neck. “There’s wine in the kitchen, if you want.”

“Right,” she repeats. “Wine. I’ll get it.” She forces herself to walk slowly where she wants to run, and that’s crazy too, but some part of her is enjoying the feeling. It’s been quite awhile since she’s felt like this, like, she realises, she’s falling in love.

Reaching the kitchen doorway, she glances back to find him watching her, his brow furrowed and head tilted, as though he can’t quite believe she’s really there. It emboldens her.

“Do you want...some?” she asks.

There’s the crooked grin she loves so much. “Oh yeah.”

As promised, there’s a bottle of red chilling in the refrigerator. Idly, she wonders how long it’s been there. He’ll drink wine if a glass is put in his hand, but it’s not something he seeks out. If she had to guess she’d say he bought it in an uncharacteristic burst of optimism some time between the night she helped with his speech, and two mornings later when she tapped the brakes on his race towards reconciliation. It hadn’t been time then; she hadn’t been ready. Now, maybe, she can be.

Putting the bottle on the counter, she rummages further, quickly putting together a plate of cheese, crackers, and fruit, assuming Kurt likely has not eaten since breakfast.

“He had to delay his whole day,” she murmurs to herself, shaking her head at his words from earlier.

Setting everything on a tray, she takes it into the living room and sets it on the coffee table.

Kurt has succeeded in building a roaring fire and now sits on the worn leather couch, legs spread, one ankle propped up on his opposite knee. Warm lamp light glows from beside him, and he has a book resting against his elevated thigh, a thick, well-worn hardcover. She can’t see the cover, but knows it’s likely non-fiction - something scientific, or perhaps historical. She’s reminded of the early days of their marriage when she would sit at one end of the couch, her laptop on the coffee table, legal files spread all around her and spilling onto the floor. He would be at the other end, sometimes working himself, but more often reading. He’s always had a better sense of balance than she.

The light from the fire plays across his face, glinting off the silver of his beard. He looks up as she sets down the food. “What’s all this?” he asks, gruff voice belied by smiling eyes.

“Food. My guess is you haven’t eaten today.”

He sets the book down and straightens up, reaching for a cracker and popping it into his mouth. “ _My_ guess is you haven’t either. Sit.”

Thinking back, she realises he’s right. Marissa had set a muffin in front of her, along with her coffee, some time that morning, but she hadn’t done more than pick at it. And she hadn’t eaten anything during restaurant ruse earlier either. Anything to do with Felix Staples tended to quash her appetite.

She shrugs in acknowledgement and picks up a cracker and a few grapes, then sits down beside him, leaving a safe foot of space between them. He glances over, eyeing the empty expanse. One side of his moustache quirks upward, but he makes no comment, just reaches for the bottle of wine. Pouring two generous glasses, he passes her one.

“You’re on YouTube, you know,” she comments, eyes gleaming in the firelight. Their finger brush lightly as she accepts the wine. “Marissa showed me. She thinks you’re hot.”

He sputters, setting his wineglass down. “What?”

“Oh yes, you’ve got quite an admirer in that corner. Ever since the day you showed up with a gift for me, there’s been no end to the matchmaking.” Her words are faux-put upon, but she deliberately lowers her voice as she crosses her legs, her stocking clad toe accidentally-intentionally grazing his the leg of his jeans, though not quite hard enough to make contact with his calf.

“Is that right?” His eyes drop down to her toes, then move up from there. “Is she helping my cause?”

“Meh.” She lifts her hand and wobbles it back and forth. “Sometimes she doesn’t know when to stop. But…” She reaches over and touches his whiskered cheek. “You’re doing pretty well on your own.”

He covers her hand with his own, brings it to his lips, then knits their fingers together and rests them on the couch between them. “I love you,” he says, repeating his earlier words, voice rough with emotion. “Thank you. For coming in. For not completely shutting me out of your life, even though I deserve it. God Diane, I am so, so sorry.”

“I know.”

And she does. The overwhelming hurt that had been her constant companion for most of the past year has finally been tempered by the knowledge that, while perhaps the perfect husband she thought she had, hadn’t really existed, this imperfect man in front of her is still one of the best people she knows. He made a terrible, horrible mistake, but that doesn’t negate all the good in him; today proves that more than any promises and heartfelt apologies. And while the pain he caused her may never disappear entirely, it’s no longer the first thing she feels when she sees him. They still have work to do, to learn to live together, and really, for the first time, to make their marriage a priority to both of them. It won’t be easy, but it will be worth it.  

“Kurt, I forgive you.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

He looks away, seeming to find something redemptive in the flames dancing in the hearth, though not before she sees the tears welling up in his eyes. His grip on her hand tightens and when he inhales, it’s shakily. “I don’t know that I deserve your forgiveness, Diane,” he says, his voice rougher than normal.  “But I’ll take it. I...I’ll take it. Thank you.”

She waits, hopeful, knowing that if this is going to work, he needs to let her see his pain. If they’re ever really going to be able to heal, they can’t hide from each other any more, can’t pretend that the rings on their fingers have somehow negated the fact that they are two very different people and simply loving each other can’t replace the sometimes arduous task of understanding each other.

He doesn’t disappoint, turning slowly and with intent, to let her see his red eyes and the tears tracking down his cheek, mixing with the dried blood still caked under his eye. Her own eyes prickle sympathetically, but she smiles the threat away, squeezing the hand still entwined with hers, then lifting it to her lips, unconsciously mimicking his gesture from the hospital earlier in the day. She kisses the side of his thumb, once softly, then, seeking to break the heavy mood, again but with just a hint of teeth.

He groans and pulls his hand from her grasp, only to slide it around her back and draw her closer. She goes easily, any thoughts of food or wine washed away by a sudden overwhelming desire for sustenance of a different sort.

She half turns in her seat, sliding her hand across his chest and tilting her head back, anticipating the moment he will lean forward and press his lips against hers.

Instead, he stiffens under her hands, and the curse that follows is one of pain, not passion. Immediately she straightens up.

“You are _not_ fine, Kurt,” she exclaims. “Come on. Let me see.” Without waiting for a response, she reaches for the buttons of his shirt. “Sit up straight,” she commands again.

His entire right side is a red mass of scrapes and bruises beginning below the waistband of his jeans and extending all the way up his ribcage, capped off by a large gauze bandage taped to his shoulder.

“Just a bit of road rash,” he says dismissively, “It’s nothing.” He leans in to kiss her, but she pulls back out of range.

“Kurt! Be serious. That is _not_ nothing. What happened?”

He rolls his eyes. “I thought you saw it on YouTube?” he accuses grumpily.

“I did, but it didn’t show...all this!” She gestures at his bare, injured torso. He looks like he slid into home on a gravel road.

He sighs and shakes his head, no more willing to get into it than he had been earlier in the car. Ignoring her questions, he begins the painstakingly process of putting his arm back into his shirt.

“No, no, stop,” she tells him. “Leave it off. I’ll get you a t-shirt.” She takes the plaid button up from him, noticing for the first time the bloodstains on the right side blending in with the colour of the fabric. Her stomach lurches and she has to press her lips together tightly to avoid any more unwelcome fussing. Rising quickly, she crosses the room and starts up the stairs to the bedroom.

Focused on her goal, she makes it all the way to the door of his room - their room - before the weight of the situation catches up to her once again. She stops, hand steadied against the jamb. In here as it was downstairs, everything looks just as it did the the last time. The bed, neatly made with its plain brown bedspread and utilitarian frame; the two nightstands, each with a wooden reading lamp; and… Oh.

On what was once her side - the novel she had been reading more than a year ago, and a pair of her glasses, sitting just so, as if she might climb into bed and pick them up at any moment.

She walk over and sits, smoothing her hands against the soft cotton, then leaning back and looking up to the ceiling. Cautiously, she pokes at the memories - that day in court, the devastating confession that followed, the long, lonely nights that stretched on for weeks and months afterwards.

The pain is still there if she looks for it.

It doesn’t change her mind.

She drops her gaze to the items on the bedside table. She’s rarely considered what this past year must have been like for him, trapped within the consequences of his own abominable choices. Even now she can’t really feel sorry for him, but she is beginning to feel some sort of understanding for how he must feel. Waking up every day to see these things she left behind can be nothing but self-flagellation.

Picking up the book, she flips to the marked page and reads a few lines, remembering little of the plot or the characters. She had bought it one stormy afternoon spent trapped at JFK, that much she does remember. Her flight home had been delayed by snow, and she had been worried that if she didn’t make it home soon, they would miss out on a brief window of togetherness before he had to fly out for a trial. Which was exactly what had happened.

She could say that was the beginning of the end, but it would be falsehood. Their marriage had begun unravelling long before then.

They simply hadn’t noticed.

Brushing her thoughts aside as unproductive, she sets the book down goes to the dresser, pulling out a soft grey t-shirt for Kurt. Then, raising a questioning eyebrow, she pulls open another drawer.

***

When she arrives back downstairs, she’s in yoga pants and a favourite old sweatshirt she hasn’t seen in over a year. Still shirtless on the couch, Kurt nods appreciatively as she approaches but makes no comment.

“Sit up,” she commands, gesturing with her fingers, then pulls the t-shirt over his head when he obeys. He slides his uninjured arm easily through the appropriate hole, then together they manage to get the other one sorted with what she hopes is a minimum of discomfort.

“That’s better,” she says, pausing to fingercomb his hair back into place, then trailing her hands down to cup his his cheeks. He reaches up and grasps her wrists.

“Sit,” he suggests.

“In a minute,” she says. “I’m just going to clean this up.” She nods to the food, which looks like he’s actually made a dent in it while she was dilly-dallying upstairs.

“Later,” he says, and the request sounds nearly like a plea. He looks tired, old, like the day’s events have finally caught up with him. Truth be told, they’ve caught up with her as well, emotionally, if not physically.

She smiles and gently pulls her arms free. “I”ll be right back, I promise.”

Good to her word, she simply drops the dirty dishes off in the kitchen and returns to the living room, turning off the lights as she goes. Pulling the soft knit afghan from the back of the couch, she settles back down against his uninjured side. He lifts his arm to accommodate her, then leaves it resting across her shoulder as she  arranges the blankets to cover them.

There is still work to be done, difficult conversations to navigate, probably tears to shed and battered vows to somehow repair. It won’t be easy and it won’t be pleasant. But tonight, she’s just a woman who loves her husband and is content to lie in his arms and listen to the steady beat of his heart against her cheek.

The work will still be there tomorrow. Tonight, they can rest.


End file.
